The Bad Guy
by Anna B. Gins
Summary: A Blood Knight mission goes horribly wrong, and a poor rookie is caught in the middle of it. Some lessons just have to be learned the hard way. Violence/mild swearing.


The forest was darker here, so much that the Blood Knight could not afford even the slightest mistake in movement. Detection in these woods was sure to be a fatal misstep; their quarry knew their home much better than her people ever would. Even the horses seemed to sense the tension lingering in the air as for a moment the only sound heard was the clopping of their shoes against every other root they came across. A deep fog had begun to settle and the Blood Knight, Arke, began to shiver with the heaviness of it. It seemed to sink into her flesh and spread into her blood, biting into her with a deep chill that made her skin clammy and her mail a burden against her trembling limbs.

The cold began to settle and Arke waved a cautious hand at the troops behind her. Though they were eager to press on and finish this forsaken quest, they halted at her command and bowed their panic-wracked faces. This job would require patience.

"M-M'lady," hissed one of the more dense Knights, flanking her own old, shaggy geldling. "I hear something . . ."

Arke again waved at him, more frantic this time, turning her attention to him for the few brief seconds it took to hiss out a chiding, scathing remark. She shook her head and turned back, twisting and pulling at the reigns in her hands. This mission could have been set up as a simple test or something even more; it wasn't unusual for her kind to send their warriors out on trials that would most certainly lead to their end. As she thought on all of this the noise intensified, coming to a great, howling climax to their right.

"There!" she shouted, and behind her sounded the glorious roar of unsheathed blades. Before her galloped a dozen and a half horses just like her own, second-hand and ready to fall at a moment's give, their riders dressed in the cheapest mail that budget could afford. Arke grimaced, watching her people run and run, until nothing but a great, choking cloud of dirt and mud bid her company. She crouched low in her saddle, waiting.

And then she heard it. From the right came a dozen and a half screams. From the right came the petrified cry of horses bucking and throwing off their riders. From the right came a brilliant, splashing wave of gore. Several of her men fell, arrows embedded deep in their chests and faces. The rest were trampled beneath their own mounts, scrambling for safe ground as their spines split beneath aloof hooves. Arke tensed as one of her men made it to her horse, pulling helplessly at the old girl's leg.

"T-Trap . . ." said the battered and bruised male, one of his ears ripped clean off by an arrow he had attempted to flinch from. The flesh of his throat hung jagged and dripped a splash of sanguine fluid before he crumpled as he should have, causing Arke's mount to spit in anxiety.

"Shh . . ." she said, leaning her lips in close to the animal's ear. "Shh. Be very still."

From across the field, or perhaps above it or right behind her or anywhere for that matter, came a loud, booming voice that rattled her bones from the inside out. "Seems we got ye cornered, Sir."

"We's all got some blood-hungry arrows in our quivers," said another, though Arke didn't turn her head to attempt to see the voice's owner. Another would come from the front as soon as she turned her head.

"Cowardly bandits are the worst of all, aren't they, Pollo?" whispered Arke to the horse, snickering as the veins in its neck tensed. "Cowardly, wretched bandits who've gone and made off with something our Champion Vranesh loves dearly."

A dull thud accompanied the descent of a bandit, followed by two more similar freefalls. Each of the masked rogues wore dark green and faded leaves, making it no wonder that in this light they were nigh invisible.

"Turn ye back now, Sir. Ain't got nuthin' yer precious Champ' wants an' 'e ain't got nuthin' we's wantin' neither."

One of the bandits began a slow walk around the horse. Every so often, the bandit's body would mock-surge in Arke's direction, attempting a flinch out of the young knight. Arke stayed as still as possible for clammy skin in a heavy chainmail vest, running her hands through the horse's mane gently.

"'E's a woman," announced the rogue who had attempted to intimidate, dancing back a few steps with a grace alarmingly akin to a cat's. Arke felt a sly, impressive smirk begin to take her lips and leaned back, swinging one leg around the horse to arc down to the ground. She landed with a trembling clank, her armour waving around her, threatening to sap her balance. A soft hum and her blade was up over her face, its dull edge resting softly against her elbow.

"An' she wants'a fight!" A deep, trembling laughter began all over the woods. There must have been twenty archers all waiting with their bows taut, sharp, dripping arrows trembling within them. Arke looked to the sky and listened.

FUH-WHAP! One arrow came speeding from the tree-tops, a perfect arc towards her neck. With a flick of her wrist it went sailing back, teetering before plunging into the ground. The air split with the whizzing and humming of the poison-tipped arrows, all begging for a chance to sear straight through her skin. She dodged, blocked, parried, and bounced every round back, knowing that just one could mean the end of her short career in what had turned out to be an Order lacking in order. The final arrow buzzed through the air and Arke listened as it purred in flight past her ear and into the tallest bandit's leg.

"Ah . . . 'Ey! Watch it! Ya got me inna' ruttin' leg!" The bandit hopped on one foot as the other two sighed after him, their blades still pointed in Arke's direction.

Their leader then. Arke clasped her hands together, folding her fingers in tightly as she whispered the softest of prayers into her concealed palms. A tiny sparkle of health began at the Bandit's forhead and spread down to his wound, spinning the arrow out of his flesh like a screw come undone and swallowing the blood in a vacuum of holy magic.

"Say . . ."

"We fight then," said Arke, whipping around her longsword so that she grasped it with two hands now. Her gauntlets clinked, the hilt settling beautifully into the worn links.

"Nah-ah, see . . ." said the bewildered bandit leader, ambling towards her with a careless, flowing gait, "you got all'a this pretty chain an' I . . . well, all's I gots is me leathers. Ain't a blade inna' world couldn't pierce this. Yer act looks mighty impressive, lass, but y'ain't walkin' taller'n yer crutches kin lift."

Arke frowned deeply, dipping her head and throwing her body back. The mail around her chest gave way, landing in a dangerous splash on the ground that sent the roots beneath chattering under the pressure. She unstrapped her belt, stepping out of her chain leggings, wrapping the leather strap around her now naked hands.

"Better, sir?" Arke asked, stalking slowly around the thief. He tensed as she neared his back, watching the movement of her muscles beneath her thin undergarments.

"See, now you gotta' female advantage. Thinkin' mebbe ye shoul' jus' put on 'at mail again an' --"

Cut off by his own groan, the bandit leader drew up his own blade against Arke's heavy, clumsy sword. Pressing back with all of his strength he overpowered her back into the trees. With a lift of his hand and a motion of his finger, the archers dropped their bows and let their feet hang low from the branches.

"Get 'er! Don't let us down, Boss!"

With the rallying cries above, Arke lost her concentration and fell to another series of hard, over-bearing blows. She lifted her sword just in time for another parry, pulling back and around her opponent's blade to strike a swipe at his side. The bandit saw this coming and flinched away, jabbing at her exposed side just a split moment after Arke brought the hilt of her sword up to tip the end of his blade. A dull pain began in his wrist and he sliced up again, but now Arke had ample footing.

Arke leapt, a series of crashing blows striking a match of pain within his bones. Every slice and swipe of her blade made a gruesome moan in his ear, and every time his sword hit it felt as if he would shatter both his arm and his blade in the blow.

Arke had one hand behind to counter-balance as she advanced, her sloppy-looking jabs always finding a grill point in his bones. He stepped back and parried a good, long slice, their blades meeting above shuddering wrists.

"Surrender, fool."

"Ye got some pretty eyes, lass."

Both blades disengaged and launched up in the air, arching up away from tired hands. Both were swept back and around, landing in opposite hands, making contact with unbruised flesh just as their blades met as well. Another pause, swords met.

"Not bad," said the bandit, walking west as Arke circled east, still pressing with ample enough force to keep Arke's sword from crashing through his pretty green mask.

"I've had a lot of practise," Arke said, her footing graceful where the bandit's was heavy and strong. She arched her back, sending his blade aside just as soon as it was brought back. Their swords clashed again in a series of loud shrieks of steel, sparks eating into their bare hands. Arke swept her left leg out at the same time the bandit jumped back. Both turned, flicking their hilts in their palms until their pinkies threatened to smear flesh along their blade, pressing their tired palms against the bottom of each hilt. A jab and they met, tip to each throat, panting.

"Get Aegar," said the bandit, sighing as Arke stared him down coldly. They remained in this place, not a waver in their hold. "Ye'll get what you want, girl, but I ain't ever seen no one fight so hard fer somethin' like this."

"Shut up and deliver the treasure to me."

"Treasure?" laughed the bandit as a small child was led in by his other men. "Mebbe to a li'l 'un, lass, but I doubt yer Champ' got 'at much'uva sweet tooth."

Arke blinked slowly, her face reddening as the child lifted a box. Inside was a small, delicious-smelling cake, just a quarter of it cut and missing. Her head seemed to swim as she revoked her blade, dipping her hand to drop it on to the soft forest earth.

"C-Cake . . ."

"We apprehended it 'is mornin', lass. Aegar's birthday 'as t'day, an' we ain't 'ad no sugar rations'a give 'em what birthday 'e should 'ave. Di'n't know yer Champ' 'as so serious 'bout 'is sweets."

The child, muddied hands streaking dirt over the white ends of the box, scrunched his face up into a look of sheer torture. He shook as he handed the box to her, watching her turn toward her horse and mail in a slow, shocked, zombie-like stroll.

"If ye ain't questioned yer job yet, best be doin' it now, lass," said the bandit behind her, his strong arms wrapped carefully around the squalling child. "Dozen men died t'day 'coz yer leader wan'ed chocolate."

Arke struggled into her mail and gasped as it clasped in around her and choked her torso. Every movement seemed more painful and burdensome than before as the weight on her shoulders compacted with its emotional equal.

"An' don't ye ever be seen roun' these trees again!" screamed the bandit, kicking dust up at her departing mount. "Sick bunch'a fools."

Arke thought that the forest seemed even darker than before, even though she was traveling into civilisation. In fact, it seemed that the closer she came to her superiors, the blacker the world became.

The bandit, weeks later, was tasked with the heavy burden of pasturing their newfound horses. After wiping the blood from their flanks and easing the memory of their own attack, the horses had become quite calm and content. They were led nicely now through the trails, or at least the bandit thought.

Up ahead was one that had separated from the group without his knowledge. He spit a healthy curse from between his weather-chapped lips, urging his own mount on towards the geldling. She turned to face him and the bandit leader realised that this horse was new, her eyes wide with a nervous anticipation.

"Well now . . ." he said in a calm, kind voice, searching the packs on the old steed's back. A carefully balanced box opened to a fresh, sugary scent and the bandit drew in a deep breath, scraping the note from the lid with earth-soiled nails.

"To Aegar an' no one else," read the bandit, shaking his head with each word. The cake inside was bigger, kept fresh and sealed instead of boxed like the delivery they had stolen. The frosting was generous, heaping on either side to drip sugar down on to the plate. A delicacy such as this could only cost a small fortune.

Suddenly, the bandit scrambled along either side of the horse, whispering sweet consolation into her ears as he ran his hands down and around the chain of her saddle. Sure enough, forgotten and left accidentally, a nametag peeked out from beneath the blankets of mail over the horses neck.

"Arke," he read the crudely scribbled name and the bandit pressed it to his chest, smiling. "Arke."


End file.
